50 Ways to Kill Your Lover
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: Messing around with Rogers is of no concern to his mission, one way or the other. It's not going to put his cover at risk and he's not about to let it emotionally compromise him, so there's no reason why he shouldn't. It's as simple as that. [Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow, Steve/Bucky (implied), "Captain America: The Winter Soldier" compliant]


**50 Ways to Kill Your Lover**  
Sandrine Shaw

The first time, they're running high on adrenaline.

They just got back from a mission in Boston, an inconsequential crack-down on a run-of-the-mill terrorist group that didn't really warrant the involvement of Captain fucking America to begin with, other than for how big a story it would make on the evening news.

A mission's a mission, though, publicity stunt or not, and when they get back to HQ, his team is almost bouncy with the excitement of a job well done. Rogers is no different, except that he probably gets off on having done the right thing and put some bad guys away where the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E. guys simply revel in getting to kick some ass and discharge their weapons.

Rogers claps Winston on the shoulder, firm and congratulatory. "Good job out there," he says, and the kid blushes and beams at him like a Christmas tree that just got lit up.

Brock rolls his eyes. "Easy on the compliments, Cap. Wouldn't want the kid to get a big head."

Just like that, Steve's focus shifts to him, and that's the funny part: even though his loyalties lie elsewhere, even though the approval of the nation's iconic hero means less than nothing to him, even though he's experienced and jaded enough not to let shit like that get to him – having the man's complete, undivided attention, the sheer intensity of that look, is a bit like walking into a firefight without a flak jacket.

Steve cracks a smile. "Let me guess, Rumlow, you prefer to punish failure rather than reward success?"

He shrugs. "Fear of punishment is a better motivator than any potential reward could be."

From the edge of his vision, he sees Winston looking back and forth between them before displaying the good sense to follow his teammates out. As he leaves, he offers a silent salute that the Captain returns.

Brock starts discarding his gear, sitting down to give his check his gun.

"I don't think I can agree with that," Rogers begins.

Brock starts to think of ways how to end this conversation, because arguing ideology and fundamental morals with Captain America is not going to get him anywhere, when Rogers gets side-tracked.

"You're injured," he says, and suddenly his hand is on the side of Brock's neck. It's a thoughtless move. If Brock hadn't seen it coming from the corner of his eye, he'd have reacted instinctively and defended himself against what his body – still on edge from the fight – reads as an attack. Steve's fingers are warm and firm against his skin, the touch stinging more than it should, and when they come away, they're stained with blood.

Brock rubs along the wound, feeling it. "It's nothing. Just a little scrape." He can't remember how he got it, but he imagines it must have been the guy who came at him with a knife when they checked out the basement of the warehouse those idiots were hiding in. The details of the struggle are blurry; he can't even remember what the attacker looked like anymore. The one thing he knows about him is that he's dead, one bullet in his chest, two in the head.

When he looks up at Steve, there's an unhappy frown on his face. "You really should get it checked out. It might need stitches." The worry swinging in his tone makes Brock laugh.

"I appreciate the concern, Big Guy. But really, not a big deal." Steve's dubious expression doesn't change, eyes wavering between his face and the wound on his neck, like Brock's going to bleed out because he's too stubborn to see the doc. The mother hen act would be sort of endearing with the team's baby members like Winston; when it's directed at him, it's more than a little ridiculous. He snorts. "I'm not that easily breakable, Cap, alright? Don't need to be a fucking super soldier to do my job."

His voice is sharper than he intends it to be, some of the aggravation he usually keeps hidden bleeding through. Rogers must be more perceptive than he appears, because he instantly seems to recognize the change of mood. "Jesus, I didn't mean it like that, Rumlow. Cut the tough-guy act."

And really, any other time, Brock would have laughed it off. Would have jokingly flipped him off and walked away. But with his blood drumming in his veins, the adrenaline from earlier still not completely gone, spiking at the new surge of anger, he snaps. When he abruptly stands, it brings him right into Rogers' personal space. Using the element of surprise in his favor, he puts a hand against Rogers' chest, feeling the muscles shift under the thin protective layer of uniform, and pushes him backwards until he hits the lockers.

"How about you cut the passive-aggressive bullshit," Brock says, but when he looks at Rogers, he doesn't even appear to hear him. He seems distracted, glassy-eyed, his gaze unfocused like he's a million miles away.

There's a part of Brock that wants Rogers to fight back, that wants to sucker-punch him until he's coughing blood. Duty dictates that he steps back and apologizes, because he's worked too long and too hard to win Fury's and Rogers' trust to gamble it away now just because he's itching for a fight. Caught between conflicting impulses, he stalls, unmoving, long enough for Rogers to regain his equilibrium.

His head snaps up to Brock's face and his gaze sharpens. When he surges forward, Brock expects a punch. Doesn't expect Steve's mouth on his, and when it happens, he's running on instinct, meeting the kiss with just as much anger as Steve puts into it, because if it's fight or flight or fuck and Steve chose to take fight out of the equation, flight is not an option Brock thinks worth considering.

The kiss is nothing like he'd have thought America's squeaky-clean heroic sweetheart would kiss like, if he'd ever considered it. For someone from the 1920s with no notable recorded experience, Steve knows how to play dirty. His tongue curls lewdly into Brock's mouth, his teeth sink into his lower lip, his lips rasp against the stubble on his neck. He dips his head and lets his mouth brush against the cut on Brock's neck. When he looks up again, his lips are wet and red.

He looks flustered, debauched, _wrecked_, and it makes Brock harder than sinking his knife into some jerk's femoral artery earlier tonight, harder than putting a round of bullets into someone's brain.

Rubbing his thumb along that crimson-stained lower lip until the blood is spread evenly across it, he pushes Rogers down on his knees, not entirely surprised when there's no resistance.

* * *

It keeps happening.

After risky missions and frustratingly long, boring debriefings. On training days when they're supposed to practice hand-to-hand but get distracted. Giving Steve a ride home after going for a beer with the guys and stumbling into his apartment, tearing at each other's clothes.

One memorable time in the shooting range, making Steve fellate the barrel of his Glock, the sight of that lush mouth wrapped around the cool, unforgiving metal going straight to Brock's cock.

* * *

His mission is to be an effective team leader whose loyalty is never questioned, to insert himself into S.H.I.E.L.D. and become a trusted, capable operative, to keep his ear on the ground and report back to Pierce and inconspicuously manipulate missions that are not in line with Hydra's interest.

No one ever orders him to get closer to Steve Rogers than necessary for a soldier and his captain. No one orders him to make friends with Captain America, to smile a crooked smile at him as he closes his lips around the mouth of a beer bottle in what he knows is beyond suggestive and downright obscene, or to push Rogers against the wall and fuck America's shining hero so hard he leaves bruises that take hours to fade. If they told him to, he would, because following orders is what he does. But it's not that kind of mission and he's not that kind of operative.

He does it because he wants to. Because his liberal-ass morals and the fucked-up priorities that consider freedom more important than order and security notwithstanding, Rogers is not bad company. Once you peel back the veneer of righteousness and decorum, he has a wicked sense of humor, and he jumps out of planes without a parachute and respects Brock enough not to pull his punches during their sparring sessions. That super-soldier body with all its easy strength and toned muscles is a bonus.

Messing around with Rogers is of no concern to his mission, one way or the other. It's not going to put his cover at risk and he's not about to let it emotionally compromise him, so there's no reason why he shouldn't. It's as simple as that.

* * *

So: it's not part of the job. It's not a long con. It's not a way to win Rogers' trust. It's not the romance of the century. It's not hearts and flowers and promises of forever. It's not love.

Love is for children and fools. It can be used against those who believe in it, it can be wiped away quickly and thoroughly at the press of a button. Just ask Bucky fucking Barnes, codename Winter Soldier, about it. Look at him and ask where his legendary love for Steve Rogers is now.

Sometimes, Brock gets so caught up in what it _isn't_ that he pays no attention to what it is.

It's companionable silences and sharing post-mission drinks. It's sparring sessions that turn into something else, sweaty bodies pushing and pulling at each other on the unforgiving, clean gym floor. It's shared wry half-smiles across the table at debriefing. It's hard, thorough fucks against the door of Rogers' apartment.

Brock never stays the night. Rogers never asks him to. Maybe he, too, is perfectly aware of what this isn't. Maybe he just knows that Brock would leave either way.

* * *

Rogers is angry after the thing on the _Lemurian Star_ goes down, but remains uncharacteristically tight-lipped about what's going on. The tension radiates off of him in waves, though.

Brock falls into step beside him. "You okay?"

"Fine." The way his lips are clenched so tightly that they're almost white reveals his clipped response for the lie it is.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride home," he offers, already thinking of ways how to relax Rogers, and possibly also make him open up about whatever's happening, just in case it's something Brock needs to be aware of.

For a moment, it looks like Rogers is going to protest, but then he seems to change his mind, his shoulders slumping as the fight goes out of him. "Yeah, sure. Fine."

They're in the underground car park, Steve strapping on the helmet Brock threw at him, when Brock's phone vibrates with a message from Pierce, ordering him back for an unscheduled briefing in an hour. He curses under his breath.

When Steve looks at him questioningly, he shrugs it off. "Come on, let's go."

He regrets offering, though, because now he'll play chauffeur, spend half an hour navigating the afternoon traffic in what would usually be anticipation but now promises to be frustration with the bike vibrating between his legs and Steve's body plastered against his back, before he has to rush back unsatisfied to meet the boss.

"You gonna come up?" Steve asks when they stop at the apartment complex and Brock kills the engine. Rogers' hair is mussed from the helmet, his face flushed from the wind.

It's almost tempting to say yes, and he allows regret to tint his tone. "Not today. I have a meeting." He smiles wryly. "Rain check?"

That night, Pierce orders the hit on Nick Fury.

* * *

"I just want you to know, Cap, this ain't personal."

Disappointment. Reproach. _Hurt_. It's all fucking written all over Steve's face when Brock slams the stun baton into his side. The elevator floor is littered with the members of his S.T.R.I.K.E. team, unconscious, not dead, because even when he's ambushed, Steve's too fucking noble for his own good.

Brock fights dirty because he's done hand-to-hand with Steve enough times to know that there's no way he stands a chance against Captain America unless he uses everything he has. They came at Rogers with twelve guys. It's not a coincidence that he's the last one standing.

Doesn't matter, in the end. Steve knocks him out as efficiently as he'd done with the others. When he's slammed into the ceiling, Brock's vision goes blurry and dark around the edges. He thinks he can push himself up and give it another go, but his legs won't comply, and the last thing he hears before he blacks out is Steve's voice, out of breath and with an unfamiliar edge.

"It kind of feels personal."

* * *

Brock watches, fascinated, as the Winter Soldier – no, _Barnes_ – loses it during mission debrief.

"But I knew him," he keeps saying, voice full of pained confusion, and Brock wants to hit him until there's nothing of Bucky Barnes left in the Winter Soldier. Maybe he was wrong about how easy love is to erase.

"Wipe him and start over," Pierce orders.

Brock watches the man in the chair, a hunched, broken shadow of the stone-cold assassin he's supposed to be, and he thinks what Pierce really ought to do is put a bullet through his brain and put him out of his misery. There's no reason why one more wipe will achieve what decades of the same didn't, why they assume that this time the memory of Steve Rogers will be erased for good. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. It's nothing he'd gamble the success of the entire operation on.

He pushes the thought away. Pierce is his CO and there's nothing to gain from questioning his orders.

When the chair is activated, Barnes' muffled screams around the mouthpiece fill the room. Brock has witnessed the procedure before, but this is the first time he looks at Barnes and sees not just an efficient, highly trained weapon. Hydra have always prided themselves in the genius plan that turned Captain America's best friend into their obedient soldier, but looking at the man now, watching him struggle with memories he should rightfully not have anymore, Brock can't help but wonder if this isn't the sort of hubris that will bring Hydra down in the end. Their goals are too important to have their plans and strategies clouded with emotions, and the triumph of seeing Rogers break over the fate of the man he thought dead isn't worth the epic, disastrous fall-out should they lose the Winter Soldier's loyalty.

He follows Pierce out of the room, unable to stop himself from looking over his shoulder to where Barnes receives the memory wipe that will make or break everything he ever worked for.

* * *

Things go to hell, as he knew they would.

Hydra's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. is revealed, all their secrets made public, and _Project Insight_ goes up in flames and explosions.

Brock wakes in hospital with third-degree burns covering his body. The pain is something he welcomes both because it helps him focus his energy on recovery and because it's a stark reminder of his failure.

The first time he looks into a mirror, he doesn't recognize the image looking back at him. His face is a mess of scar tissue, angry red at first, fading more and more to pale white. It's a good thing that he's not a vain man. Still, he avoids mirrors when he can, and when he's well enough to take up his gun again, he pulls a mask over his face, rationalizing that it wouldn't do to be easily recognizable.

* * *

He doesn't see Rogers again until that day outside the federal courthouse.

He doesn't blink when he pulls the trigger. It's what he's getting paid for. It needs to be done. If he wasn't the one with the gun, it would be someone else.

Rogers goes down like a puppet whose strings have been cut, Captain America bleeding out on the dirty asphalt. Super soldier or not, he bleeds red and he dies just like any human.

Brock disassembles his rifle. He packs it away calmly, unhurried, and leaves, pushing through the panicked crowd that surrounds their fallen hero. People shout and cry, there are flashes of cameras going off, the sound of police sirens in the background. No one pays attention to him.

* * *

Barnes takes up the shield and the uniform, Captain America rising from the ashes like a phoenix where the public is concerned because no one is ever irreplaceable, not even the great Steve Rogers.

There's disdain in the thought and bitterness. Brock pretends it stems entirely and solely from the frustrating knowledge that what he did was for nothing in the end, that he's fighting against windmills. Cut off one head and two more will take its place is Hydra's motto, but it might as well be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s – no matter how many times you bring them to their knees, they'll stagger up again and again.

* * *

It's Stark who eventually takes him down.

He wishes it were Romanov or, better yet, Barnes, because he has no intention of letting himself be captured alive, and he knows he'd only need to mouth off to them about how their friend died at his hand, how he pulled the trigger that put a bullet through Rogers' heart, and either of them would end him quickly and effectively. Painfully, too, probably, but he can handle pain, and he never expected to die peacefully in bed.

Instead, Iron Man throws him against the wall of a building like a rag doll. When he tries to get up, his broken arm not providing enough leverage to be as fast as he should be, there's a heavy, metal-clad foot planted firmly in the middle of his back, driving the air out of his lungs and keeping him on the ground.

"Don't even think about it," Stark says. His tone is conversational, like they're colleagues exchanging pleasantries at some bullshit engineering conference, like he doesn't want to tear Brock limb from limb. "I know twenty-three ways to leave you permanently crippled but well enough to live a long, agonizing life in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody."

"You're not going to take me in," Brock says, voice firm with a conviction he doesn't feel.

Stark hauls him to his knees and cuffs his hands behind his back, tight enough to cut off the blood flow. It gives him one hell of a flashback to that day in D.C., during the whole _Project Insight_ clusterfuck, when his S.T.R.I.K.E. team arrested the rogue Captain America and his friends. Steve kneeling before him, letting himself be cuffed without putting up a fight, still reeling from the sight of the Winter Soldier stripped of his mask.

Back in the here and now, Stark lifts his visor and throws a grim, vicious smile his way. "You bet your ass I will."

* * *

There's an endless parade of stone-faced strangers in suits questioning him and making notes of the none-answers he gives. It's a laughable excuse for an interrogation. No one lays a hand on him, no one is even threatening him with violence, as if they expect him to break one day from sheer boredom.

They stick him in a cell with transparent walls that look like he could easily break them but turn out to be frustratingly sturdy and resilient to his attempts. They feed him regularly, and it doesn't taste like someone poisoned the food or otherwise defiled it. They send him a shrink and he considers breaking her neck just to make a point, but he doesn't want to give S.H.I.E.L.D. the satisfaction of knowing that they're getting to him. So he just lies back and ignores her, staring at the bright white lights on the ceiling until his eyes hurt.

His prison doesn't offer any distractions, nothing to do with the tenacious stretch of time but work out when he wants to, eat when he's given food, shit when he has to. Between that, too much time to think. Another man – someone more conflicted, less certain in their loyalties, someone who questions their orders – would find it hard not to use that time to doubt their choices. He doesn't.

Doesn't mean when he closes his eyes he doesn't see Rogers' dead body in a pool of blood. He gets no satisfaction from the mental image, but there's no regret in it, either. Captain America was a symbol for everything that was wrong with the country and he had to die.

When he tells as much to the shrink, because it becomes clear that she's not going to stop asking just because he won't offer her any answers and he decides that there's little harm in giving her this, she frowns. "You and Steve worked together closely for months when you led the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. You got along well. It can't have been easy for you to pull the trigger."

He shrugs. Steve and he did a hell of a lot more than just _work together closely_, but he's not going to tell her that. It doesn't change anything. "Would you ask Captain America the same questions if he had killed me? Rogers stood for what he believed in. So do I. It put us on different sides, which is unfortunate, but that's how it is."

His voice is free of inflection. The way she looks at him, he knows she thinks he's fronting or that he's in denial, and he already regrets engaging her questions in the first place. She's smart enough not to voice her concerns, though.

"Believe it or not, I would." When he indicates that he doesn't know what she's talking about, she continues. "In the theoretical event that Steve would have been forced to kill you, I'd indeed be asking him those same questions in the psych evaluation."

He nods. It makes sense. If his commanding officers at Hydra believed in the value of psych evaluations, they'd probably ask those questions too, simply to check if he's being emotionally compromised. "And he'd give you the same answers," he tells her. "The difference is, he'd be able to get up and walk away when he's fed up with you picking his brain."

"Point taken." He feels like he won this round, except when she gets up and walks out, she turns back to him to say, "But he won't, because he's dead."

* * *

He wakes up one morning – it feels like morning, but for all he knows it could be the middle of the night or late afternoon; it's not like he has a way of measuring time in here – to find Barnes standing outside the cell, watching him through the glass. Brock hasn't seen him since the final _Project Insight_ showdown, back when the Winter Soldier was still Hydra's own and unaware of his true identity. He looks the same, except his hair is shorter, neatly cut, and the star on his metal arm has been modified to look like Captain America's shield. Brock's eyes zero in on it, then snap back up to unrestrained hatred on Barnes' face.

"Finally coming for that pound of flesh?" Brock smiles wryly, anticipation and adrenaline drumming through his veins. "Took you long enough."

Barnes doesn't move, just keeps looking at him with eyes cold enough to do his old alias justice. "Don't hold your breath. I'm going to keep coming here and I'm going to watch you slowly go crazy when you realize that this is going to be your life from now. Just you and this cell, your own personal twelve-by-twelve-foot hell. Doesn't look so bad now, but give it a year or ten and you'll see."

It's the most Brock has ever heard him say. The Winter Soldier used to be silent, his voice dead and emotionless when he answered the occasional question or order thrown at him. Clearly, Bucky Barnes is nothing like that.

Brock shakes his head. "You don't want that, man. You want to kill me. To wrap those metal fingers around my throat and squeeze, because every time you look at me you see your buddy Steve with a hole in his chest, and you want to make me pay for it in blood. Don't fucking pretend you don't dream about ripping me to shreds."

The Winter Soldier never smiled, but when Barnes does, it still makes him look every bit as lethal and vicious as his brainwashed Hydra assassin alter ego. "Don't bother. I'm not going to be doing you any favors, pal. No one's going to touch you, so if you're hoping for a quick way out of here, think again."

He starts to leave, then turns back. "But keep trying. Maybe I'll feel more merciful in a couple of decades."

In a surge of anger, Brock grabs the tray with his food and throws it at the wall. It leaves stains on the glass and the tiles that look like blood. The bowl and the tray clatter against the floor, unbroken, with a hollow noise.

* * *

Barnes stays true to his word.

He comes to see him even after S.H.I.E.L.D. has long since stopped sending people to question him and even the shrink has apparently realized that Brock is a lost cause. Barnes doesn't talk, doesn't bother to react at all to Brock's continued attempts to aggravate him enough to walk into his cell and kill him. By now, it's mostly perfunctory. Brock has used up all his ammunition, everything he did or imagined he could have done – real or fabricated – that he had hoped would make Barnes snap.

None of it worked, even when he could see the rage burning in Barnes' eyes, the twitch of his mouth when he ground his teeth, the tight clench of his fists that promised retribution. Doesn't mean he's going to stop, but he's done hoping that it's going to get him anywhere.

The twisted part of it is that he's starting to look forward to Barnes' silent, infrequent visits. He's always been a self-contained guy, none of those lonely, sad fucks who needed other people to provide company, but he's starting to realize that there's a difference between solitude and isolation.

It's not a big thing. He isn't going crazy. He isn't ready to climb the walls and try to off himself with a blunt spoon. He's strong enough to withstand worse shit than this. Doesn't mean he doesn't welcome the distraction of Barnes' visits.

* * *

"Bucky says you have a bit of a suicide wish."

Brock freezes. It's the voice, not the words, that makes him question his sanity. This isn't possible. It can't be real. They must have done something to fuck up his mind, perhaps some sort of gas, or they drugged the food.

He sits up and turns around and, sure enough, Steve Rogers is standing behind the plexiglass wall, perfectly healthy and alive. He's in civilian clothes, arms crossed over his chest in a gesture that's forcibly relaxed even when the tension in his body is clearly visible.

Brock would assume that it's just some fancy masquerade, someone putting on one of those high-tech masks and pretending to be the nation's deceased hero, but the expression on his face is pure Steve, too much disappointment and betrayal written all over his features for someone who didn't know their history. And no one but Steve and he do.

It feels like a punch to the gut. He tells himself it's failure, not relief.

"I've been wondering why the reformed Winter Soldier didn't seem inclined to avenge the death of his best friend, but I guess that explains it."

"He didn't know."

Brock snorts in disbelief.

"He didn't. No one knew until last week. So if he didn't let you push him into killing him, it's simply because he isn't the type," Steve argues hotly.

He has that expression on his face, the one that says his faith and trust in Barnes is absolute, indestructible no matter what he knows Barnes has done while he was Hydra's trained attack dog. _Children and fools_, Brock thinks.

"I'd have thought you'd have learned to be more careful about who you let into your bed," he says, just to get a rise out of Rogers.

It works like a charm. Anger makes a pretty flush rise to Steve's cheeks and his eyes flash. "Don't," he says. He stops short for a moment like he has to rein himself in and compose himself. "Don't compare yourself to him. He didn't work for Hydra willingly. You knew exactly what you were doing and for whom. When you pulled that trigger, there was no one in your head but you."

Brock can't argue with that.

"It really wasn't personal, Cap." It's as close to an apology as he's ever going to get, when both he and Steve know that if it came to it, he'd do the same thing again. He regrets that it had to go down like that, but he doesn't regret his actions.

Steve's jaw clenches in a way that speaks of barely restrained fury. He looks like he wants to give him a grand speech of how wrong he is and how misguided his beliefs are, and Brock braces himself for all the righteous bullshit he knows is coming.

Instead, Steve just shakes his head. He doesn't say a word. He just turns around and walks away.

Lying back down on the narrow cot with his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling as the sound of Steve's footfalls gets quieter, Brock doesn't watch him go.

End.


End file.
